by Bob Goodwin
Charlie opened the front door. All was quiet. In the dining room, he could see a sheet of folded paper propped up against a champagne glass. His last hope for a successful end to a disastrous evening was fast disappearing. Charlie walked towards the table and read the note.
Dear Charlie,
I rang Dad. Mum has taken another bad turn.
Have to go. Maybe next time. So very sorry.
Love Deb.
Madden picked up a glass and hurled it against the wall. Fine splinters showered over the carpet. Next to go was the tablecloth, together with the cutlery, plates, salt and pepper shakers, and the lifeless pink candles.
Chapter 20
Poor Old George
Most of the regulars were already showered, dressed, and waiting for breakfast. Others shuffled about on the cold vinyl floor, responding rather reluctantly to the multitude of staff instructions. Therapy, such as it was in Ward 21, was underway. All manner of activities from bathing and bed making to badminton and basket weaving were included under the therapeutic umbrella. Altruism was actively encouraged, and often whether they liked it or not, residents were expected to aspire to this healthy practice and assist those less able than themselves. For the most part, the role of the staff was one of observing, supervising, prompting, and medicating. Substantial emphasis was always placed on personal hygiene and general ward tidiness.
Two custodians, Eddy and Mike, stood watching a middle-aged man frantically wiping down the bedside lockers.
‘These old alco’s are surely good value,’ said Mike. The distraught gentleman had beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His heavily creased features and bulbous, pulpy nose, a by-product of many years of intemperance, belied his true age. ‘They work like a thrashing machine, do everything you say, and never remember if you give ‘em a flogging.’
‘You’re right, you know,’ said Eddy. ‘But it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I was thinking that they behave that way because of a deficiency in the neurone department. Right?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Well, dear Michael.’ Eddy placed his arm over his friend’s shoulder. ‘You’re the biggest piss-head I’ve ever known, and you wouldn’t work in an iron lung!’ He removed his arm and quickly took a couple of steps to one side, just out of reach. Mike gave a wry grin, nodded, and rubbed his hands together.
‘Okay, dog-breath. I like to have a few beers, sure, but look at this complexion.’ Mike ran his fingers over his cheeks. ‘Absolutely flawless. Now yours, I’d like to point out, is quite different. Tell me that funny story again from last night. The one about how you got that black eye and those three stitches.’
‘Yeah, very funny, smartarse.’ Eddy lightly touched the small dressing on the bridge of his nose. The area was still very tender, but wasn’t hurt nearly as much as his pride. ‘Come on, let’s get old George up now. Nearly everyone else is ready to go around for breaky. Stacey, the prick, can stay and eat in his room.’
Ras was lying on his side, bed covers over his head. He had remained in the locked seclusion room since the incident with Simon Stacey on Sunday. Mike slapped his hand against the glass. ‘Come on, Georgie. Rise and shine. It’s your lucky day. You’ve got two very nice gentlemen to escort you to the bathroom.’ Eddy looked at Mike with raised eyebrows and unlocked the door.
‘I hope you’re not going to ask him to pick up the soap?’
‘It’s an interesting thought,’ pondered Mike. He positioned his hand over the front of his stone-washed jeans, cupped his genitals and gave a sharp shake up and down. ‘I do like to make good use of my therapeutic tool.’
‘You’re really a depraved, evil man, you know,’ said Eddy, with a grimace at the thought. He turned the handle and both entered the room. ‘George, up you get. Time for a sh — ’ There was a moment’s stunned silence as Eddy reefed away the bedcovers. Ras was lying in the foetal position, naked from the waist down. A damp plastic bag clung like Glad Wrap to the patchy blue and grey face of the old man. His purple tongue protruded slightly from the lower corner of his open mouth. The whites of his eyes could just be seen through the partly open eyelids. The standard-issue, blue hospital pyjama pants had been secured around his neck to ensure the bag would not easily become dislodged. ‘Fuck!’ Eddy threw the sheets to one side, crouched, and felt for a pulse. ‘Cold as a fucking maggot. He’s been dead for hours.’
‘Jesus, mate, this will go over like a lead balloon. How the hell did he get a plastic bag in here?’
‘Stuffed if I know.’ Eddy slid his hand along the sheet up to the pillow. ‘I thought I saw something. There we go. Would you look at that. Looks like chlorpromazine.’ He held up a large white pill between his fingers. ‘It looks like it’s been in his mouth. There’s a couple more here too.’
‘The bastard’s been hoarding his medication. I always thought he swallowed his tablets.’ Mike sighed and scratched his head.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Eddy. ‘We’ll leave everything as it is, lock the door and close the blinds. We need to call the supervisor. It’ll be a police matter now. This is so totally fucked.’
Chapter 21
Friends and Foes
Simon Stacey had been lying awake for ten minutes watching the clock through the blinds and wondering how he had ended up in a locked seclusion room. Events were patchy, but he recalled images of large moths, of blood, and he had some memory of his heart trying to jump out of his chest. He stood, taking a moment to find his balance, then moved to his window.
There seemed to be an unusual air of quietness and sobriety about the ward. Four staff stood in a small circle outside the office, chatting and from time to time, staring at the floor and shuffling their feet on the vinyl. There seemed to be a distinct lack of patients; only two could be seen. Dougy, the compulsive cutlery collector, sat in the corner with a fixed, fatuous grin. For some reason, he always looked untidy; a shower, shave, and shampoo seemed to grant little improvement. His beady eyes darted to and fro. He slouched even further into the corner, then secretly opened his brown corduroy jacket, removed a dinner fork, and polished it briskly on his blue pyjama trousers, then returned it to its hiding place. He wrapped his coat up snugly, folded his arms across his belly, and began to jerk his body up and down excitedly. The only other patient to be seen was the obese brain-damaged teenager who sat at the table engrossed in her jigsaw that was at last taking shape.
Simon found himself becoming more preoccupied with the unusual sensations of his own body rather than the goings on outside his room. In the reflection of the window, he looked at himself swaying to and fro. He was surprised how unconcerned he felt. His torn, unbuttoned pyjama shirt, dirty-looking hair, unshaven face and dry lips would normally demand his immediate attention. Simon broke his fixed stare by placing his open hands in front of his eyes. While his fingers trembled uncontrollably, his dulled sensorium continued to safeguard him against any emotional distress. In this intangible state, he was content to take refuge.
‘The entire world is my aquarium. They’re all trapped but me.’ Simon pushed his face against the glass, distorting his features. ‘I have the greatest freedom. I no longer worry. I no longer suffer,’ he whispered. Stacey forced a smile. It helped him believe his own words. ‘I don’t think they see me. They look, but they see someone else. Without me they are nothing, for they can only exist while I continue breathing. My life is their life.’
Simon was so engrossed in his escapist voyage from the fish bowl to Utopia that he failed to hear the door unlock and open.
‘Breakfast time, Simon!’ announced Kym. Stacey was momentarily breathless as he jumped with fright back into reality. ‘Are you okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘I was a million miles away, searching for the meaning of life,’ replied Simon, catching his breath and sitting on the side of the bed. While he was somewhat displeased with the intrusion, he found it consoling to see Kym in preference to anyone els
e on the staff. Apart from her attractive oriental appeal, she had been polite and understanding since their first meeting. ‘I don’t feel normal. It’s like half my brain is anaesthetised. The other half was asleep as well until you surprised me. I know I should be concerned about what’s happening here, but I just feel, well, nothingness; emptiness; detachment.’ Kym placed the tray on the end of the bed and sat down next to Simon. She looked to the door, nodded, and waved her hand to the male nurse standing outside. He nodded, realising that his assistance would not be required, and left.
‘You were injected with some medication late yesterday evening. I imagine you’re experiencing some after effects. Do you remember what happened?’
‘Vaguely. I think I was hallucinating. There were giant insects. Moths.’ With the help of pressure from his fingers to his forehead, he recalled some of the nightmare. ‘Yes, giant moths. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Never in my life have I had such an experience, so why should I start now?’
‘You’ve had some major life traumas.’
‘Yes, but no, that’s not the answer. Listen, Kym,’ he said sincerely, gently placing his hand on her shoulder, ‘You’re one who’s concerned about injustices in the world. What about forcing people to take medicines? In particular, me. Here as a voluntary patient. Falsely imprisoned, as you told me yourself the other day. This is destroying me, Kym. Very slowly, but very surely.’
‘Simon, one thing you should know is that you are no longer here voluntarily. Doctor Hutchinson and Eddy completed the necessary paperwork last night.’
‘Bastards! Partners in crime, I’m sure.’
‘Your behaviour was really bizarre last night. You needed to be physically restrained.’
‘I know this will sound like a line you’ve heard a thousand times, but I’m sure the medication I am being given is laced with something. It’s poisoned!’ Simon tried on his most honest face, and looked directly into Kym’s brown eyes. If she had any doubts about his story, it was not publicised on her face. ‘Now, if you’re thinking I’m paranoid you’re right, because there really is someone out to get me.’
‘To be quite straight with you, yes, I have heard that line many times, and on every occasion it has turned out to be false. Why should this be any different?’
‘Do I have any history of psychotic behaviour?’
‘None that we are aware of.’
‘I think I would have preferred a simple no, but never mind. Tell me, is it usual for so-called depressed patients to become paranoid?’
‘Psychotic, yes, in a paranoid way? Occasionally,’ replied Kym with an intended grin, which revealed a perfect set of teeth.
‘I have the impression we’re not doing very well here.’ Simon returned the smile, both pleased he could see the lighter side of the situation, and relieved he was no longer feeling like a total zombie. ‘I think you should be my therapist, not Eddy the arsehole. Just talking with you is making me feel more like a human being.’
‘Being cooped up in these rooms can make you feel detached from the world. I think you’re right; some company is what you need. Not mine in particular though.’ Simon smiled at Kym’s diplomatic reply.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Stacey kept his vision locked onto the black-haired Asian nurse. She parted her lips as if to speak. Her eyes darted from side to side, quickly scanning his face. Raising her hand, she faintly stroked her index finger over his lips. For a second she sat staring, then stood and walked to the door.
‘I’m going to risk being unpopular and leave your room open. Those lips are very dry. I’ll fetch you some cream.’ Kym turned and was soon out of sight.
Simon gave a big sigh. He smiled and nodded in a confident gesture intended to convince himself he had achieved something meaningful with Kym. I’ll be needing to get out of here before long, and Kym might just have the ticket, he thought. Looking at his breakfast tray, Simon shook his head in disgust. All the items, the mug, dessert spoon, and two bowls, were all made of a soft yellow plastic. One bowl contained porridge, and the other bite-sized sausage pieces in tomato gravy.
‘I think they forgot my high chair,’ remarked Simon quite loudly. He picked up the mug of lukewarm tea, took one mouthful, cringed, and tipped the remainder into the porridge. ‘Shit, I hate plastic tea!’
* * *
Simon pursed his lips and applied the lanolin-based cream. It gave immediate relief. He could now smile without cracking his face. He replaced the top on the tube, handed it back to Kym, then sat down on the unmade bed.
‘Thanks very much. A simple thing, but it makes a big difference.’
‘Starting to feel a little more like part of the human race. That’s good. Would you like to talk?’
‘With you, yes. About you, yes.’ Stacey thought of adding something about getting out of hospital, but decided it would be premature to reveal his hand too early. Kym reached outside the door with one hand and dragged in a plastic straight-backed chair.
‘I think it would be more beneficial for us to talk about you.’ Kym positioned the chair on Stacey’s right. She sat, crossed her ankles, gently cupped her hands, and leaned slightly forward.
‘That would be a very boring story, I’m afraid. Couldn’t we start on something a little more interesting?’
‘Simon, I hope I’m not being too direct, but sooner or later you’re going to have to talk about what’s happened. About your wife and son. About the fire. I’m sure you would like to leave this place before long. Working through your grief is the start of the healing process and a step towards getting well and getting out of here. What do you think?’
‘Shit, shit shit!’ cursed Stacey. He looked away and studied a dried drop of blood on the floor. Yes, I sure want to talk about that all right, but not in the same way that you do, thought Simon. He placed his elbows on his knees, supported his chin with his thumbs, and thoughtfully rubbed the sides of his nose with his fingers. After considering his options for a couple of quiet minutes he came to a decision, then spoke firmly and clearly. ‘Kym, I need someone I can trust. I don’t mean to put you in a professionally awkward position, but I need a guarantee that what I am about to tell you will not go beyond these four walls.’
‘I don’t know whether I can make such — ’
‘Listen, just give me forty-eight hours,’ interrupted Stacey. ‘If after that time you still feel the need to release a world exclusive, go ahead.’ Simon edged closer across the bed, his eyes pleading. Their knees touched.
‘Okay, you have my confidence, Simon. Let’s hear it.’
He gave Kym the abridged version. He told her about how his wife, Alison, had become mixed up with some sort of cult, and that he believed it was these people that had murdered his family and torched his home. He linked this to the 13th Black Candle group that George Hartley had described, saying he believed they were one and the same. He said how he had found a note containing phone numbers, one of which belonged to Ward 21. Finally, he repeated those words Ras had screamed out: You’re the one. Friday, it’s you!
* * *
‘You see, Kym, I’m going to need your help,’ said Stacey in conclusion to his story. He had told her as much as he thought she needed to know, at least for the moment. There should only be one person who knew more, thought Simon, and that was the person with the micro-cassette tape, Adrian; but where the hell was he?
‘There’s no way I can get near old man Hartley,’ added Simon. ‘And that’s the way Eddy wants it, I’m sure. You’ll have to talk to Ras for me. Find out more about the Friday thing.’ Stacey spoke quickly, as he looked at Kym in anticipation. She had turned away, bowed her head, and reached for a tissue from the pocket of her navy-blue culottes.
‘Ask him about these Black Candle people, about where they meet and who...’ Simon’s words slowed as he heard the soft sobbing. Kym had her eyes covered with the damp tissue. He reached forward, placing his hand gently on her shoulder.
‘What’s wrong, Kym? If you don’t want
to do this...’
‘It’s not that, Simon. It’s George Hartley. That lovely old man.’ She sighed, lifted her head, and flicked her hair back with her hand. Her eyes were moist and red.
‘Yes, yes, what’s up? Is he still sick?’
‘He’s dead, Simon. Last night. He committed suicide. I’m so sorry.’ Stacey let himself fall backwards onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling. He clenched his fists and took three deep breaths to suppress his urge to shout and scream. You can handle it, Stacey. Get a grip on things, he told himself. With eyes closed he began whispering instructions.
‘Calm and relaxed. Quiet and relaxed. Loose, calm, and relaxed. Let go, let go and relax. Relax, relax, relax.’ Apart from an unusual thick sensation forming in his tongue, his technique seemed to help a little each time he repeated the words to himself. After a moment, he sat back up. ‘You know that if it wasn’t for me he could still be alive. I was pressuring him to speak about the club and the Bodytune thing. I can’t help but think that someone here wanted to silence him. The poor old bugger,’ he said mournfully. ‘It might look like suicide, Kym, but I’ll bet it’s not. And if you don’t help me, I will be next.’
‘Okay, Simon, I will keep your confidence for the time being. George’s death does sound odd, and while he was often psychotic, I have never known him to be suicidal. I’ll make some discreet enquires and keep you informed.’ Kym blotted her eyes one final time, and picked up Simon’s breakfast tray.
‘Kym, you need to be careful. This is a dangerous place.’
* * *
The Asian nurse stood alone at the workbench in the locked medicine room. She was head down, concentrating on the task in front of her when Eddy’s loud voice caught her attention.
